The Old Parsonage

There are watchers here:
in the old stone walls,
behind the heavy door,
hanging in cool air
when I turn
neck prickling
to see an empty space
where they are watching me.
Vibrations in the fabric
of an old house
where many have met
and said goodbye.

Trying to sleep, counting the church clock’s twelve chimes, at last I feel them go. Their voices seem to chuckle on the edge of hearing, floating in bubbles of silent air to burst on the widow pane spilling sound scratches in my ear. Girl’s party screams? A rugby chant? Pub closing time? Watchers teasing hearing’s thin stretched thread.

One, then two chimes sing. Music of hot rubber scores a distant road, bites of monster sound snapping at the threads. Then, three soft bells: I fade into the sheets.

With morning pigeons strum dull accompaniments as solo songsters rattle at my ears, a jackdaw conducts himself as always badly, discordantly saws at the air. Six bright chimes awake me and I creak out of the door.